


From Barcelona To Santa Cruz

by thinkpink20



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:45:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The conversation after <i> that </i> holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Barcelona To Santa Cruz

Even when they first met and it was clear John was not only _older_ but a lot more sure of himself, Paul was never _afraid_ of him. George - and some of the others they have met since - clearly were, but never Paul.

Paul has always looked up to him, but he's never been scared to talk to John about anything; they're too close for that. You can't sit opposite someone on a bed for hours looking into their eyes and creating songs together and then be _afraid_ of them.

But today, he is.

Today Paul is nervously fiddling with his cuff links and touching the corners of his mouth whilst he paces. He is standing in a hotel room in London - one that will be _their_ hotel room later on - and realising he has no idea what to say. For the first time in his entire life, he has nothing to say to John Lennon. And that scares the living daylights out of him.

Eventually, of course, John turns up. He barrels through the door, carrying his bag, wearing the customary stupid I've-Been-On-Holiday hat and looking more tanned than Paul has ever seen him. He looks different with a sun-tan, and when he takes his hat off Paul discovers that the constant sunshine has brought out the red tones in his hair. It suits him.

"Alright, matey?" Paul asks. He wants his tone to be excited, enthusiastic. But actually it just sounds a bit pleading and pathetic, even to his own ears. Which is fatal - being pleading and pathetic in front of John is usually social suicide - expect piss taking and laughter for hours.

"'Matey?!'" John laughs, throwing his bag and hat down. "Since when have we called each other that, Paul? All that sun turn you soft, did it?"

Paul could ask the same thing. _Wants_ to ask the same thing. "Did you have a good time? How's Eppy? All relaxed and ready to take over the world?"

John squints at him. "Yeah, it was alright," he says. He sounds guarded - Paul's stomach drops. "Brian's fine, he's gone to his room."

John never calls him 'Brian' in private, it's always Eppy or Bri or - on occasion - 'her indoors'. Paul's stomach drops a little further. "So," he says. "What went on?"

It can't really _be_ any plainer than that, and Paul didn't especially mean to say it that way but... he wants to know. No, scrap that, he _needs_ to know. Maybe later on, after this, he'll explain away Brian and John's trip as some sort of power play within the group, but standing here right now he knows how he feels - John had two options when talk of a break came up - to go and see his wife and new born son, or to go to Tenerife with the three of them and visit Klaus. But he chose another option - Brian. 

Well, Brian and Brian's friends. Paul assumes there must have been 'friends' around the place too, unless John and Brian just stayed in the apartment alone for twelve days and - 

He doesn't even want to think about it.

"Oh, ask me straight out, why don't you?" John says, face inscrutable. "Don't sit on the fence or anything, Paul."

"Well," Paul shrugs. "Just thought you might want to tell me."

And then John sneers, and Paul regrets ever going to the bloody village fete, never mind entering this room this morning. He _hates_ that sneer. It brings a storm cloud of dread over the building. "Owe you the truth, do I?" John asks. "Who d'you think you are, Paul - Cynthia?"

And of course he's right - John's a married man. If he answers to anyone about his affairs - straight or otherwise - then it certainly isn't his best friend. Although sometimes Paul isn't sure if the term 'best friend' is enough; sometimes he _knows_ it's not enough - and sometimes he feels like it's way too much.

"I just... If you're fucking our manager, I'd just like to know."

And then they stare each other down for a few minutes. Paul hates these moments; he always associates looking into John's eyes with pleasant things like writing or sharing a joke or exchanging thoughts no one else can hear - he hates it when they do it on the grounds of dislike. It feels like it chips away at a little piece of his soul that is forever John-shaped.

They once looked into each others eyes during a very _different_ moment, but they don't talk about that. And Paul certainly doesn't think about it, especially now.

"Why, jealous?" John eventually asks. 

"Oh yeah, that's right," Paul says, disappointed to hear the volume of his voice has gone up a notch; he really wanted to be the calm, composed one here. "I'm just desperate to be Brian's little bum-chum - I'm so sorry he invited you and not me."

Then all of a sudden, John is _there,_ right in front of him. The shift and focus of Paul's world narrows (it's always slightly spinning on John's axis, closes in now) and they're inches apart.

"Not of me," John says, quietly. "Of _him."_

Paul feels himself start to sweat, suddenly too warm in the thin shirt and sweater vest he has on. It's always disconcerting to be this close to someone in anger, but even more so when that person is John. He has so many ways to win, so much more punch in a verbal fight. John is the master of words - Paul knows he himself is a good songwriter but he never flatters himself to think he can best John, not ever. In a verbal sparing match, he'll lose.

"Don't know what you mean," Paul replies, matching John's tight, quiet tone. But it's weak and pathetic because John's words weren't even slightly ambiguous.

"You wish it'd been us," John whispers (and Paul shivers; can't help it but _hates_ his body for reacting to the proximity of John's at a time like this). "You wish it'd been us in the sun sipping drinks and watching the boys go by - you're sick, Paul."

Then with an agonising, painful glance down at Paul's lips, John turns around and walks away, back to his bag on the bed. Paul watches him begin to unpack it, feeling stupid standing in the middle of the room by himself, still locked in a conflict that John has walked away from. Then something occurs to him.

"No, John - _you're_ the sick one, letting him fuck you by the pool in front of all his little friends and then - "

But Paul's words are cut off by John grabbing great fistfuls of the vest he is wearing, pushing him back a few steps so that he staggers, catching his balance. John is inches away from him once more. "Say that again and I'll knock you." His voice is laced with gravel, dirt, anger. But Paul no longer feels frightened now; instead he's sparkling with energy, hopped up like he's about to run out on stage, every nerve ending buzzing.

"Oh really? So that's not the way it happened, eh? How was it then, _Johnny?_ Was it at the bar, or something more intimate on the sofa?"

John looks like he really _might_ hit him. A vague fear of going onstage tomorrow night with a shiner washes over Paul, but then it dies as soon as it came.

"Good, was he?" Paul whispers. He realises a second before he says it that the next thing out of his mouth is the most dangerous thing he's ever said - but goes ahead anyway. "As good as me?"

Whatever he expects from John - a kiss, a punch, a laugh - it isn't one short, small shake of the head. It isn't honest, vulnerable, needing eyes for the briefest of flashes and then being let go of, propelled backwards towards the wall with nowhere near enough force to hurt.

Paul feels stunned. He watches as though through fog as John goes towards the door of their room, stops with his fingers lightly gripping the handle.

"It was in the bedroom," he says, quietly, facing away. "I wasn't too bothered but he wanted it more than anything." 

Then, before disappearing off to say hello to the others, he turns and meets Paul's eyes. "Thought I owed the universe a favour," he says. "Because someone did that for me once, too."


End file.
